


gratification

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [33]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), First Time, Gratuitously tender sex, Kissing, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pining, Short work, delayed gratification, gentle lovemaking, ineffable husbands, interim fic, post-ritz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25568320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: “After all these years. The things I wanted to do to you."Crowley looks up and their eyes meet. He is dripping with desire, with mischief, with curiosity, all the things Aziraphale loves about him. "So do them, then."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515578
Comments: 16
Kudos: 133





	gratification

"How long have you wanted me?" Crowley manages between the kisses Aziraphale lavishes on him, his lips and his jaw and his neck.

Aziraphale moans, the sound of a man so close to getting something he has always longed for. "How long?" His voice trembles, as if this question is almost insulting. Crowley throws his head back as the angel’s hands run down his sides, pinning him down by his hips. "I thought of taking you behind Petronius’ restaurant. Imagined tasting oysters on your tongue." Aziraphale’s kisses are savage and breathless. "I wanted to make love to you under the stars above Camelot." He is full of desire, full of untold wishes and unspoken needs. They come tumbling out, unashamed. "The room I rented in London when Will was writing his plays..." Aziraphale pauses to nip at Crowley’s earlobe, "had a bed that was too big, and I imagined you lying next to me..." His hands fly up to tangle in Crowley’s hair. "Your hair was long then. I wanted—"

"Mm," sighs Crowley in agreement, his hands skimming over the smooth curve of Aziraphale’s buttocks.

"The day you rescued me in Paris, oh." Aziraphale’s voice shudders. "I would have had you on the stone floor. Had you on the table when we sat to lunch. Had you afterward, in your chamber where we drank. God your lips were so red."

"You remember that?" Crowley murmurs, even though he too can remember, as if it was only yesterday, the glint of Aziraphale’s eyes that night.

"Yes." Aziraphale nuzzles Crowley’s collarbone. He drags the tip of his nose down the freckled skin. Lingers in the hollow of Crowley’s throat. The demon’s breath hitches. "I remember the suit you wore in the church, too. When you rescued me again. I couldn’t stop thinking about— about keeping you in the shop during the Blitz, taking every layer of it off of you..." Aziraphale sucks in a breath, like the missed chance of not making love to Crowley sooner is too unbearable to face. Only when he blinks and sees those curious golden eyes staring at him, is he reminded that this is for real, at last. "Do you know why I left so quickly after I gave you the holy water?"

"Why?" breathes Crowley.

"Because every second I spent longer in that car with you..." Aziraphale frames Crowley’s sharp face with his hands, "...the harder it was for me to resist. I could have leaned over and..."

"You should have," Crowley sighs, arching up to meet Aziraphale as he lowers his head to do the thing he wanted to do, that night outside the neon lights of the bars and strip-clubs. His lips press into Crowley’s oh so gently, like a prayer. Crowley lifts his hands to bury his fingers, grasping and desperate, in Aziraphale’s starbright curls. _Salvation_. He loses himself in the drag of Aziraphale’s lips over his skin. _Grace_.

"Angel," he sighs against Aziraphale’s neck.

"Call me that again," Aziraphale begs.

"Angel. Angel," Crowley obliges, between bruising kisses that he leaves on peach-soft skin, between breaths stolen from Aziraphale’s lips, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the unique tilt of his nose. "My Angel."

"The night you came to me after you delivered Adam, I wanted you," Aziraphale hitches out, breath hot against Crowley’s chest. "Wanted you spread out and naked on this damn couch, wanted to make you cry out my name. And when I thought I couldn’t want you more, you changed form...Miss Ashtoreth, the only woman I ever loved," Aziraphale croons, enjoying how Crowley wriggles beneath him, preening at the memory of his once-female figure. "Warlock’s birthday party. You had cake in your hair..." he presses an open mouth against Crowley’s cheek, just beneath his ear, just against the tattoo of a snake. "You wore a white suit. You looked utterly delicious."

"You should have given in," hisses Crowley, always the tempter. His hands seek out the soft dips in the flesh of the angel’s back. He fills them with the heat of his own fingertips. "You should have pushed me into the backseat and fucked me senseless."

"Wanted to do that in Tadfield," Aziraphale whimpers as Crowley coils around him, all arms and legs and lengths of wiry muscle. "When you slammed me against the wall, I shouldn’t have wanted as much as I wanted... did you?" He implores, cupping Crowley’s face.

The demon growls, "Oh, yes. Was it so obvious then?"

"I would have let you take me right then and there if I hadn’t been so...distracted," Aziraphale confides in a low, arousing voice.

A wet kiss presses itself to Aziraphale’s lips. "And when I stopped time for you?" Crowley asks, aware of how hard they both are against each other.

Aziraphale moans at the memory. "Forgive me."

"For what?"

"Making you—" He is cut off by the demon’s lips on his again. Crowley flips them over so Aziraphale is the one beneath him now, spread out, pale legs bracketing Crowley’s slender hips.

"I wanted to. Anything for you." He drops his head and sucks at Aziraphale’s collarbone.

"Then that night before our trials," Aziraphale sighs, and his eyes nearly roll back in bliss. "Your flat. So close. I wanted to hold you. Before anything else happened."

"Again," hisses Crowley, yellow-eyed, "you should have."

"Yes," Aziraphale agrees, whimpering, as Crowley’s tongue acquaints itself with his belly button. "I should have. After all these years. The things I wanted to do to you."

Crowley looks up and their eyes meet. He is dripping with desire, with mischief, with curiosity, all the things Aziraphale loves about him. "So do them, then."

Their story has always been told in carefully measured iotas of contact, in estimations of trust and even affection; a story told in the taste of wine and conversations hidden either in plain sight or behind closed doors. They are simply writing more to the story now, with significant changes. The wine is now tasted on one another’s lips. The careful measurements are abandoned, giving way to raw feeling, giving way to the need that has been ignored for so long. It is told in sloppy, wet kisses, in the graze of teeth, in the brush of fingertips. In the way they let each other in, slick and sweet. In the many ragged, breathless endearments that spill from Aziraphale’s lips onto Crowley’s ear, names and adorations that he has been saving for— for when, exactly? For this? Has he been hoping, all this time, that one day the spell would break, the curse would lift, and he could call Crowley his and only his?

"I love you," Crowley groans in the heat of it. "I love you. I love you." He says it over and over again, strained, as if to make up for the long years he hasn't said it when he wanted to.

When they come it is more exhilarating than Aziraphale’s ever imagined. For a few moments he cannot feel Crowley, not exactly, but simply a burst of pure pleasure and bliss, the longing finally sated. Moments later Crowley spurts against his belly; it’s a mess, he knows, he can’t bear to think of the sheets and he’s glad his clothes are nowhere near the bed (they abandoned them in the hall, a trail of tan and beige and red and black). But the technicalities don’t matter because, afterward, he is able to fold Crowley in his arms, hold him here for as long as he wishes without being afraid of getting caught. Maybe Crowley will stay for dinner. Maybe he will stay the night. Maybe he will stay forever, the two of them will stay forever like this, drenched in sweat and in spend and in love, legs tangled amongst the sheets, bare skin sticking to bare skin.

"Does this make you mine?" He whispers against the demon’s shoulder. Crowley is a sight: flushed cheeks, damp, messy hair, swollen lips, eyes bright and warm like tiny, twin suns. He cracks a crooked grin.

"Aw, Angel," he drawls, and is back to being cool, slick, ineffable Anthony J. Crowley. "Haven't I always been yours?"

**Author's Note:**

> This small fic, cranked out while I waited for the mojo to finish my #AngelWYD story, contains allusions to some of the other fics in this series:
> 
> “I thought of taking you behind Petronius’ restaurant. Imagined tasting oysters on your tongue” - Aziraphale wanting to sleep with Crowley since Rome is first mentioned in ‘Hello, Again’ 
> 
> “I remember the suit you wore in the church, too. When you rescued me again. I couldn’t stop thinking about— about keeping you in the shop during the Blitz, taking every layer of it off of you..." - This definitely happens in my post-Blitz fic ‘a moment sudden and stolen’ 
> 
> “Miss Ashtoreth, the only woman I ever loved” - I explore this aspect of their relationship in ‘She’s Back’
> 
> “You wore a white suit. You looked utterly delicious." - Not one I wrote, but a request of mine- GayDemonicDisaster writes an excellent, deliciously filthy fic (filthier than this one ofc!) where Aziraphale and Crowley get it on in the Bentley after Warlock’s party! 
> 
> “When you slammed me against the wall, I shouldn’t have wanted as much as I wanted...“/“So close. I wanted to hold you. Before anything else happened." - both mentioned in ‘For Holding’, which is a whole fic of Aziraphale being starved for physical contact over the centuries
> 
> Of course, Aziraphale waxing lyrical over Crowley during foreplay is a prompt I dealt with in ‘Patter.’ And narratively, this story is similar to ‘Say It, Just Say It’ as both fics centre on Aziraphale making it up to Crowley for 6000 years of lost opportunities. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading!


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